


when the teacup shatters not

by madslilteacup



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dark Will, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Manipulative Will Graham, POV Hannibal Lecter, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Protective Hannibal Lecter, Protective Will Graham, Temporary Amnesia, Time Travel Fix-It, Will Graham Helps Himself, Will Graham Knows, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:20:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29733084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madslilteacup/pseuds/madslilteacup
Summary: They die. And then they live. Back to where it all started.-A self-indulgent fix-it retelling of S1 and possibly S2 with an amnesiac time-traveling Hannibal and an equally time-traveling Will Graham who is determined not to let the teacup break.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 32
Kudos: 132





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love the time-travel trope and second chances and the less stabby route, and thus this fic was born. So basically, after the fall, our favorite Murderhusbands traveled to the past at the time of death. Will retains his memories of their "future" but Hannibal doesn't. Despite it though, he'll be getting a slap of confusing but strong emotions of love here and there, where his mongoose is concerned. Hannibal lost his memories because he hit his head (among other things), taking the brunt of their nosedive from the cliff when they hit the water and jagged rocks. And because well, he's a dick. I like seeing him feel wrongfooted and doing the Pikachu face when Will does dark/sly/cunning things he doesn't expect him capable of. YET!
> 
> Huge thanks to my beta reader [ fictionalkid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalkid/pseuds/fictionalkid). This chapter wouldn't be as smooth flowing as it did without her because I am crap with punctuation and sentence structure at times still confuses me. 😅 English is my third language and I don't do deep metaphorical BS. 😆

Hannibal woke in the early hours of dawn, stumbling onto his hardwood mahogany floors akin to a fumbling newborn fawn. For half an hour he sat there, the unshakeable feeling of wrong, that he was not where he should be, permeating every breath. Closing his eyes, he could almost feel the yielding give of a firm waist, soft curls tickling his cheek, a comforting weight pressed up against the thundering in his chest. Blood on his hands. _Their_ hands. Elated. Exultant. Euphoric.

But then gravity pulled, nothing but quivering gasps in his ears before the shock of jagged rocks and winter stabbed icicles into his aching bones. The taste of blood rushing up his throat felt like a memory, as did the hot gush of blood that blinded him as it streamed down his face. Hannibal welcomed the siren call of the dark, at peace within his darling's embrace as they sank into the depths of the ocean.

His _mylimasis_ had deemed mutually-assured destruction as their fitting end, and so he accepted it without question, once again forgoing decades of strict self-preservation instincts just as he'd done three years prior in the biting snow. It was only a matter of time before the police found them. He understood why they had to fall. His boy would not suffer through the FBI tearing them apart again. Better be one in death than face separation.

There was no surviving it a third time.

Running a hand down his face, Hannibal twitched minutely as he eyed the wetness that clung to his fingertips, equal parts confused and curious as to his body’s reaction to such fantastical imaginations, of the echoes of _sentiment_ he could still feel writhing within the chambers of his heart over a faceless someone he was willing to give up his life for. It had been decades since he felt emotions strong enough to move him to genuine tears. 

What a terrible, beautiful dream.

With a fortifying exhale, Hannibal rose from the floor, tightened his sleeping robe, and went about his business in the kitchen. Time was of the essence. He would reexamine the dream at a later time. For now, he still had a surly, sharp-tongued Special Agent to feed Miss Cassie Boyle’s lungs for breakfast.

* * *

"Good morning, Will."

Wild-eyed and wet-cheeked was not how he foresaw he'd find Will Graham that morning as he opened his motel room door, nor did he expect for the intriguing profiler to nearly crumple in on himself as soon as their gazes met. Hannibal's name escaped chapped lips as if Will had seen a ghost, white-knuckled grip on the doorknob the only thing preventing him from falling where he stood.

"May I come in?" Hannibal asked, thin brows furrowing as he studied the crusted blood adorning Will's knuckles before drifting back up to storm-blue eyes that looked to be accumulating fresh tears. 

No answer was forthcoming. Will simply stared at him, transfixed, like he couldn't bear to look away, the helpless anger and sorrow in his eyes so palpable that Hannibal found himself in the unique position of wanting to reach out and pull him into his arms. Not for any self-serving machinations to manipulate or foster dependence. Only that he simply wanted to offer some measure of comfort upon seeing Will so upset. Strange.

Hannibal had looked forward to today, to throw intellectual back and forths with the Special Agent, to hear it straight from his mouth what he thought of the Copycat Killer, of the _help_ he so graciously received.

However, instead of a sense of clarity, Will wore the look of a man lost, his entire world wrenched right out under his feet, leaving him with nothing to stand on. Curious. What could have occurred between the day prior and the now? Hannibal wanted to know.

Will's expression shuttered as they regarded each other silently. He shivered, and Hannibal stepped further into the doorway, shielding Will from the chill of the morning air, severely underdressed as he was in nothing but a flimsy pair of boxer briefs and a plain white shirt.

"Jack is deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine today," Hannibal shared without prompting. "Although…" he trailed off and let his gaze wander into the dark interior, quickly finding the toppled chair and a few haphazardly tossed articles of clothing in the middle of the room. The bathroom lights were also turned on. Hannibal caught a glimpse of the mirror from within. Cracked. Most likely from blunt force. The reason for Will's injury without a doubt. "... you seem to have started an adventure on your own."

"I… I didn't get much sleep." Seemingly finally finding his voice, Will heaved out a breath and stepped back, gesturing for Hannibal to come in. "I'm sorry it's such a mess."

Hannibal inclined his head, ensuring the screen door was properly closed before placing his food bag on the table. He watched Will's back, cataloguing the sweat clinging onto his shirt, the dampness of his hair and the ripe scent of distress percolating his chosen space to retire the previous evening. "Nightmares?"

Will turned, one hand grabbing the edge of the table, nothing but an aborted tilt of the head before looking to think better of it and using his voice instead. "Yeah. You could say that."

"Are you often plagued by nightmares, Will?" Hannibal prodded, thinking of Will's prickly expression at Jack's office. _No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love._

"I often dream of murder," Will said, slow and measured, before pulling up a chair and taking a seat. "Though, I wouldn't exactly consider them as something I'm plagued by."

Hannibal paused unzipping the food bag and met Will's steady gaze before darting once more to his bloodied knuckles. The way Will had chosen to deliver his words, hesitant and a dare all at once, had him thinking of friends sharing secrets. "Then what do you consider them? If you don't mind my asking."

"I don't mind." Will assured, noticing the attention Hannibal directed the wound. He flexed his fingers and closed them into a fist. "My _dreams…_ help me escape the rules of society. I find freedom there. It's where I can simply be… me. No good. Nor evil. Just me and—" Will's eyes glistened, breath stuttering, chest heaving. Hannibal watched as Will struggled to keep himself together before directing Hannibal with a faint, bitter smile. "I woke up and everything I've fought so hard to keep, solely for me. Gone."

Hannibal licked his lips, near certain that he was about to hear something extraordinary. He could almost see the shadows lurking behind Will's eyes, but just as clawed fingernails began chipping the edges of his forts, they withdrew, receding into the darkness. "What happened to your hand Will?" 

Fist abruptly slammed on the tabletop. 

"I saw my reflection in the mirror and it's all _wrong_!" Will gritted out, teeth bared into a half-snarl, furious, desperate, _heartsick_. His fingers traced a line along his forehead, one hand pressing against his stomach, before he clammed up and curled in on himself much to Hannibal's disappointment. However, he was nothing but patient. He would simply have to wait for another chance to see more of the treasures that lay within Will's mind. 

Hannibal waited for him to break the silence. 

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lost my temper. That was rude of me, doctor."

"It is quite alright, Will," Hannibal placated. "We are adults and I would like to think we are already well within the confines of friendship. Or something close to it at least. You need not censor yourself with me."

Will raked fingers through his hair. "I'd like to have a cup of coffee first before you continue to psychoanalyze me, Hannibal," he bit out.

"Will."

"And don't worry about my hand," Will added with a shrug. "Nothing a good wash with soap won't fix. This much won't kill me."

"While I'm certain this humble establishment has passed some form of sanitary standards, I would rather ensure you don't catch an infection while in my company." Hannibal carefully stood up, hyper-aware of Will tracking his movement. "I must go and retrieve my first aid kit. If you would be so kind to wait, I will be just a moment."

Will laughed, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. They locked eyes and Hannibal saw mirth in them, coupled with a half-smile that somehow still showed too many teeth. 

It felt like looking into the mirror.

"You know Hannibal, you worry too much." Will said in an indulgent tone, teasing in its execution, _flirtatious_ even, before he seemed to remember where and when he was, blue eyes darkening and turning icy. He looked to the side. Deflated. Forlorn. Hannibal stilled, wondering if he should keep count of the times Will had called him by his name and of the manner in which he'd spoken it. "Do what you think is best, Doctor Lecter." Will amended, watching him from the corner of his eye that Hannibal pretended not to notice.

"If you'll excuse me, Will."

"Go ahead. I'm not going anywhere."

Hannibal made quick work of retrieving the first aid kit. Closing the driver's seat, he saw Will unmoving by the window, curtains pulled aside just so. It seemed Will had been watching him from the moment he left through the front door. Hannibal waved and couldn't quite suppress the smile stretching along the corners of his lips when Will waved in return and smiled at him openly. Unguarded. Friendly.

For someone who hadn't been fond of eye contact mere two days ago, Will had no such aversion towards him now. Before Will moved aside to let him in earlier, he had unwaveringly held Hannibal's gaze, stare intense as if Will was searching for something buried in his eyes.

For one riveting moment, Hannibal surmised that Will had figured him out to be the Copycat. He left the food bag halfway unzipped, baiting Will to ascertain what he could be harboring in the stream of his thoughts. The Minnesota Shrike was already a known cannibal, and if Will deduced Hannibal to be the Copycat, he wondered if Will suspected the food. Would Will, in his epiphany, call Jack and take samples for evidence or do something equally ill-advised as most law enforcements tend to do in their naive sense of justice?

Will's gift of pure empathy and the potential to see the world through Hannibal's eyes posed too great a temptation. It'd be a shame to kill such rarity so early in the game. It would be ideal for Will to stay blind until Hannibal deemed him ready to see.

"That was quick," Will remarked as soon as Hannibal returned and began taking out the contents of the first aid kit. 

The food bag was untouched. In position. Exactly how he left it. 

Will gazed outside, eyelashes thick in the light of the morning as he watched the clouds. He didn't have the look of a man who precariously held within his hands the burden of truth. 

Hannibal took out the thermos next, two ceramic cups meeting with a soft clink before he handed one to Will. "Your coffee." 

"Thanks." Will matched his smile and steadied his grip as Hannibal poured the piping hot liquid into the mug. He took a careful sip and Hannibal was pleased to watch him recline on his seat, body language loosening and opening up like an invitation while his eyes fluttered close, lips parting in a satisfied hum that shouldn't sound as enthralling as it did. 

Sweat stains and unruly hair aside, Will was an exquisitely beautiful specimen of his gender, the kind that would not look remiss in a Botticelli painting, and did Hannibal not hold utmost appreciation for all things beautiful?

"It's really good," Will praised, looking up at Hannibal from under his lashes, and then making a face when his gaze traveled back to his torn knuckles. "I should wash my hands."

"I will procure the water so we can start dressing your wound," Hannibal informed and turned on his heel, but Will's injured hand sprang forth and he caught Hannibal's wrist. Hannibal allowed the touch, their gazes boring into each other before Will hastily broke the stare-off. He took his hand back, glared at the limb as if it had betrayed him.

"You don't have to do that, Hannibal." 

There went his name again. Fond. Familiar.

Titles were important to Hannibal. They created strict borders, more often than not putting him in a position of dominance. Such was the power play in the societal circles he navigated so well. He never found being addressed casually as appealing. Even Alana. Hannibal never liked the associations she tried to cultivate the few times she called him by name. Her attraction to him was evident and she spoke his name with the expectation that Hannibal would be a helpless fool and fall head over heels for a young thing such as her.

But Hannibal could detect no such subtle manipulations here. Will infused warmth into the syllables of Hannibal's name in an all too natural manner. In actuality, he tended to look startled the couple of times his mind caught up with the mouth that seemed to possess an innate fondness for Hannibal despite their, as of yet, brief working history. 

"I insist, Will. Please allow me the courtesy."

"I'm not an invalid," Will reiterated. There was a bite to his tone, which he quickly smoothed out with an apology. "If you insist on playing _nurse_ with me, Doctor Lecter, at least let me wash my hands in the sink like a functioning adult without your hovering."

Silence followed in the wake of Will's ire.

"Very well," Hannibal acquiesced, feeling oddly like a child that had been reprimanded for squeezing a pet too tightly. Peculiar still how he didn't feel affront in the slightest. 

"Thank you." Will put down the coffee mug and made a hasty retreat for the bathroom.

Hannibal watched him disappear behind a slammed door, mind leisurely trying to make sense of the enigmatic man. Will wasn't the type to easily let someone into his life; his barriers had barriers in place, so his newfound familiarity with Hannibal naturally invited suspicion. Though Will seemed friendly and comfortable with Hannibal, he was also distant and near antagonistic in the same breath. It confused and thrilled Hannibal. He rarely felt wrongfooted. He delighted in the implications of what Will's perceived closeness for him could mean and how he might make use of it. Yet he found Will's temper equally irksome. 

For the first time in Hannibal's life, he couldn't get a full read on a person's intentions.

Furthermore, he had the strangest feeling that the Will he met a few days prior was different from the Will who opened his motel room door this morning. Will did mention a dream, the contents of which he admitted had upset him so. Hannibal knew how it was to be unable to swiftly separate oneself from the fantastical machinations of the mind. He could still faintly feel the cold and the arms wrapped around him mid-freefall whenever he closed his eyes.

Will could still be in the process of adjusting to the waking world. Just like Hannibal for nearly an hour, sitting on his bedroom floor at the crack of dawn, trying and failing repeatedly to put a face and a name to the person he'd called _mylimasis_. Fascinating, how they were both troubled by dreams on the same day.

As soon as Will collapsed back onto his seat, Hannibal asked for his hand, and the man extended it without a word. He had changed into a clean dry shirt and loose light-blue pants. Tear tracks gone. Hair semi-combed. As put together as he could make himself before donning on his work clothes. 

Hannibal felt eyes searing holes into his skull as he worked. Will was silent, not so much as a hiss when antiseptic was poured on torn skin. 

"Is there something interesting on my face, Will?" Hannibal asked, head cocking upwards, slow and deliberate to give Will ample time to avert his gaze and pretend ignorance.

But Will did no such thing. Muted blues traipsed over the planes of Hannibal's cheekbones, his forehead, his hair, the bridge of nose, his neck, before pausing briefly on his mouth. Then he closed his eyes and turned towards the window. Hannibal's question remained unanswered. He didn't begrudge Will his silent scrutiny and simply redirected his focus back to the completion of his task. 

"Your mind is wandering," Hannibal stated as he wrapped Will's hand in gauze. Will craned his neck to look at him. "Stay with me."

Sad eyes pinned him in place before Will lost focus, staring at a faraway point, somewhere Hannibal didn't think he could follow.

"Where else would I go?"

* * *

With Will's injury suitably bandaged, Hannibal took out the rest of the contents of the food bag and arranged them on the table. "I'm very careful about what I put into my body, which means I end up preparing most meals myself."

Will's aborted chuckle had Hannibal pausing. "Fast food don't make for a refined palate."

"Indeed." Hannibal's lips quirked, mirroring Will's humor as he distributed the utensils between them. "A little protein scramble to start the day." He handed Will the container with the generous helping of Cassie Boyle's lungs. "Some eggs, some sausage." 

Hannibal gauged Will's reaction, looking to see if he harbored even a shred of suspicion, if he were to waver about eating the meat.

Will took a big bite out of the sausage. "Mhm, that's delicious. Thank you." He moaned, appreciative, bordering on obscene.

Hannibal nearly dropped his spoon. "My pleasure."

Will looked at Hannibal across the table, eyes shining with amusement as he stabbed another piece. "You made this?"

"Yes," Hannibal replied, feeling his throat dry when Will gave his compliments to the chef, voice sultry as he took another bite.

"Cassie Boyle." Will stated the name as he eyed the sausage halfway into his mouth, but with an air of indifference starkly in contrast to how Hannibal was suddenly gripping the fork in his hand. "The girl mounted on the staghead in the field. Since you said Jack isn't going to be my companion today, I expect he told you details about her installation?" Will asked, shoveling more sausage and eggs into his mouth. Perfectly unbothered.

Hannibal loosened his hold on the fork and shifted in his seat. Assessing. Curious. Will had just described the murder of Miss Boyle as an installation in the same way any patron of modern three-dimensional arts would. 

Interesting.

"Ah yes, Agent Crawford tells me you have a knack for the monsters."

"The Shrike didn't kill that girl in the field. The difference was night and day."

"The devil is in the details." Hannibal chewed and swallowed. He put down his utensil so he could hunch forward and focus on Will. To hear how he interpreted Hannibal's gift was what he'd been looking forward to since the young entitled Miss Boyle went limp in his arms. 

She was quite the rude girl, who was in the habit of yelling at the grocer he frequented for his preferred spices by constantly asking for a manager, screaming and threatening to sue for her imagined slights. She fit the Shrike victim profile. Her high-pitched screeching sure enough provided a pair of healthy lungs.

She was meant to stimulate Will's mind so he could see clearly the cannibal he was getting to know. Hannibal fed the oblivious pigs around him their own kind for his entertainment. But as he prepared breakfast and thought of Will Graham, he could not bring himself to lump him in the same category as the rest of his acquaintances. Instead, Hannibal regarded him fondly and found himself wanting to nourish Will's body with his home-cooked meals. 

Hannibal should have no care for such trifling sentiments and yet. "What didn't your Copycat do to the girl in the field? What gave it away?"

"My Copycat?" Will licked his lips. Hannibal did not miss the flush that crept up Will's cheeks at the implications of owning such a killer, even as he gesticulated with his hands. "Everything. It's like he had to show me a negative so that I could see the positive."

"How considerate of him," Hannibal intoned.

"He is. That crime scene was gift-wrapped," Will stressed, palms up. "From the manner in which she died to how she was mounted, she did not receive love from her killer. Not in the slightest. She was a tool, a means to an end. An _ingredient_." The mocking twist up Will's mouth had Hannibal's breath hitching ever so slightly. What an extraordinary boy.

"She was alive when her lungs were removed. They would be more useful with her dead. The Copycat gutted her like a pig. _For me_." Will abruptly stopped, eyelashes fluttering as if waking from fantasies. He glanced at Hannibal, seemingly awaiting condemnation. Caught.

Hannibal tilted his head, quite pleased with the influx of emotions he'd witnessed cross Will's face as he talked about Hannibal's gift. Even more so, with the way he'd looked so at home, in his element as he reconstructed the crime. Hannibal had initially pictured Will to be shame-faced, guilt-ridden after realizing how much he enjoyed being in the Copycat's headspace, but Will only appeared to be disconcerted that he had an audience as he admired a killer, and the gift of which said killer left for him.

_I often dream of murder. Though, I wouldn't exactly consider them something I'm plagued by._

"You sound enamored, Will."

Silence. Cheeks flushing harder. "Do I?" Will ducked his head and sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck before Hannibal could respond. "I told you before. My thoughts are often not tasty. Killers live in my head rent-free. Jack doesn't want to know what goes on in here as long as I get _his job_ done for him." 

There was no mistaking the displeasure in his voice at the mention of Agent Crawford.

"You have a problem with Jack?" Hannibal queried, satisfied to see Will almost done with his meal. The container was near empty.

"I have a problem with everybody," Will huffed with a self-deprecating smile. "He's nothing special. Just someone I have no choice but to tolerate. I protect myself by letting Jack push me around. I already look unstable enough with my lifestyle, Hannibal. I say no to Jack and his crusade, and it'll be that much easier for him to see me filling the shoes of the killers he has me hunting." He trailed off, visibly rankled. "I do tick quite a number of boxes."

"Surely Agent Crawford in his own way cares for your well-being, Will. He did approach me to help ascertain your mental health."

"Ah, right. My psychological profile," Will scoffed, looking largely unimpressed. "He put me in the direct sights of a psychiatrist knowing full well of my aversion to your… kind. His disregard for my wishes doesn't endear him to me. In fact I find it…" Will's lips twitched, silently laughing at a joke privy only to him. "... _terribly rude_."

"Either way, it's fine." Will continued with a hand wave of dismissal. "Jack had enough sense to keep me away from Chilton at least. Forget looking at crime scenes. If I were to share the same space for more than five minutes with that shallow, smarmy asshole, that would've driven me to murder." Will met Hannibal's gaze. "But you," Deep blues slowly glided up and down his body, as if Will was appraising a rare artefact. Hannibal fought the urge not to preen. "I like you. You're interesting, Doctor Lecter." 

_I see you,_ Will's eyes seemed to convey.

Hannibal didn't think Will made the connection yet that he was the Copycat or the Chesapeake Ripper. It would be too much of a jump even for Will given that they'd only recently met, but he was proving to be gifted enough to suspect that Hannibal was not as he presented himself to the world. Such a brilliant mind sitting on top of exquisite features, and Hannibal's breath caught like a pitiful schoolboy with a crush.

"You know, Will, I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup." Hannibal hid his smirk behind a leisurely sip of his coffee. It would not do well to show how much the simple fact Will found him interesting pleased him. "The finest china used only for special guests."

Will watched him, then fiddled with the rim of his mug, contemplative. "How do you see me?"

The promise of companionship always had its allure, but Hannibal lived for decades in a world of prey and lesser predators. He learned to be content with his source of entertainment, resigned himself to never be truly seen by an equal when he left his Uncle Roberto's estate. Life went on in all its dreadful dullness with bursts of color in between when he was feeling particularly inspired. It was enough. Until he entered Jack Crawford's office and beheld the sight of Special Agent Will Graham. 

He was prickly and wore too much flannel, where dog hair seemed to have taken residence. Will was physically enchanting. However, beauty alone would not have caught Hannibal's attention. Pure empathy was rare and intrigued him as a psychiatrist. Such attributes absent, the other would have only been a passing interest.

But Will was in possession of both, with a dark sense of humor and an appreciation for the monsters, his attraction to the Copycat Killer's design barely concealed. There was a real possibility to find understanding and an equal in Will. In hindsight, Hannibal's fantastical dreams could have only been brought upon by his encounter with the ill-tempered profiler. 

Unfortunately, Will had strong ties with the FBI. Hannibal wanted to cut such ties. Before their illuminating conversation, the plan of alienating Will from Jack was half-formed at best. It would appear Hannibal need not get involved. Judging by Will's words and glacial tone where Agent Crawford was concerned, Jack had alienated himself from Will just fine.

Eyes the color of dried blood held Will in place. Indeed. How did Hannibal see him? Will made no effort to break eye contact, head tilted just so. Hannibal had heard talks within the FBI Academy's halls about Professor Graham; their resident bloodhound. He believed Will held so much more potential than a mutt on a leash. 

Willl had great capacity for murder but there was also no denying that being a protector was in his blood. He worked Homicide, then took a teaching post where his lessons on how to catch killers might potentially save a trainee's life. With Will Graham molding the minds of the FBI's next generation of talents, Miss Lass might just be the first and the last of her kind.

How Hannibal saw Will was made clear in an instant. "The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by."

Will's burst of laughter was surprising but not unwelcome. However, the joyful sound quickly dissolved into hacking sobs. Hannibal once again felt wrongfooted by the sudden change, unsure of how to proceed.

"Fuck. It's still you. Shit. But you don't— damn you. I can't fucking _do this!"_ Will's disjointed murmurs had Hannibal rising, one leg folding as he knelt in front of Will, peering up at the face hidden behind shaky hands.

"Talk to me, Will," Hannibal softly urged, only to be nearly knocked over when Will lunged, arms coming up around his shoulders, face pressed against his neck. It took nearly all of Hannibal's self-control to not react as he would in a fight. Hannibal adjusted his bearings so he could more efficiently support Will's weight.

An image too fast to make sense of flashed in Hannibal's mind's eye. Gone as soon as it came.

"Will?" The urgency in his tone and the genuine worry he felt over Will's seemingly random meltdown was new and most vexing.

"Let me. Just… five minutes. Don't push me away, please," Will begged as he held him tighter, the tremor in his voice twisting something awful within Hannibal's core.

"I'm here, Will," Hannibal murmured against his ear, fingers coming up to rub soothing circles across his back. He resolutely ignored the atrocious aftershave's scent that seemed to have cleaved onto Will's pores, until he calmed down enough to pull back from the embrace.

"I don't know what came over me." Will aggressively wiped at his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Never apologize for coming to me. Please know that my shoulder is yours should you have a need for it again," Hannibal offered, surprised at himself for meaning every word. Palming Will's cheeks and gently wiping the sweat and tears off his face with his bare hands didn't feel like the first time. "Better?"

Will nodded, tried to smile and failed. He didn't seem in danger of having another episode at least. "I think I'm all cried out, doctor."

"Would you like to tell me about it?"

"No." Will shook his head in polite refusal. "I'd appreciate it if anything we talked about here didn't reach Jack," he said, gripping the lapels of Hannibal's short coat as if Will was afraid he would slip away. "Especially about the mirror and the breakdown I had just now."

"You've shared things with me this morning in confidence and they will not leave this room." There was no need for Will to ask such a favor. Hannibal was a selfish man and Jack gaining added insights into Will's beautiful dark mind was something that couldn't be allowed. "And I am not in the habit of gossiping about the conversations I have with my friends."

"And we are friends," Will spoke, hesitant. Shy. Hopeful. "Aren't we, Hannibal?"

"Of course, Will." Hannibal smiled, delighted at Will's continued use of his name. His hands were a gentle pressure on Will's shoulders. Hannibal squeezed lightly. Grounding him. "I believe I told you earlier that I hoped we were already well within the confines of friendship."

"Yeah." Will sounded relieved. "I remember."

Will was fast endearing himself to Hannibal as another smile broke the surface of his person suit. Hannibal brushed an errant curl on Will's forehead. Careful. Lingering. "Good." 

A sudden ringing from somewhere across the room had Will jolting in place; only Hannibal's firm hand splayed across his chest prevented Will from losing his balance. Eventually, the call stopped and was sent to voicemail. 

_Hey, Graham. It's Beverly. Just calling to remind you about your rounds to the pipe threader companies today. Jack's at court. Think he said something about Doctor Lecter accompanying you? Nice! You crazy kids have fun. But not too much, fun. If ya know what I mean._

"Bev," Will rasped out, shocked surprise in the widening of his irises. He looked at Hannibal, thoughts racing behind intelligent eyes that he couldn't quite fathom. "What time is it?"

Hannibal pulled back his sleeve and read him the time. Curses let loose under Will's breath as they gingerly rose from the floor. Hannibal followed Will's line of sight as he glanced behind him. "You need not concern yourself with the dishes. I will put them away."

Will looked like he wanted to help Hannibal with the simple menial task, but then seemed to think better of it. He tugged at his curls and made a face. Decision made. "Quick shower. Give me twenty minutes then we can go?"

"Certainly." Hannibal nodded, smiling placidly as he arranged the empty food containers. He straightened and regarded Will, suffusing warmth into his smile that did not feel as foreign to him like the times it had before. "If it's you Will, I don't mind the wait."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad about the reception I got on the 1st chapter. For my first ever fic, the kudos and comments I received really made me happy. Thank you so much! I am my worst critic so external output really helps. And a huge thanks for my beta fictionalkid for being so open and game with my crazy talk despite the busy work schedule. I love you dear. ❤️❤️❤️

With sleeves rolled up and his coat draped on the back of a chair in the corner, Hannibal walked to the sink to wash the food containers he'd brought along. Once done, he then picked up the clothes Will left strewn on the floor and dutifully folded them at the foot of the bed. The sound of the bathroom door opening made Hannibal turn. Will emerged not a moment too soon, and whatever Hannibal intended to say died in his throat. He stared, riveted, rendered speechless as Will made his approach.

The first time he met Will in Jack Crawford's office, Hannibal had been overcome with the urge to draw the profiler. Though their talk had been cut short, there was no denying that Will left an impression. Despite his snappish behavior, Will had still been akin to a painted masterpiece, painstakingly drawn with tears, passion, and blood. It hit Hannibal then that he could try, but had to accept that such paragon was never meant to be truly captured on paper.

Will's arresting beauty was undeniably masculine. The strong slope of his nose and rugged facial hair framed a sharp jawline, Cupid's bow and plump bottom lip begging to be kissed. Hannibal itched to touch, to sweep aside damp curls and fully appreciate the striking blue eyes fanned by dark lashes.

Droplets of water made Will's bare torso glisten, and Hannibal shamelessly admired the play of muscles that Will usually hid underneath ill-fitting button-downs and loose dark pants. Hannibal drank his fill, not at all in the habit of denying himself anything he found worth his time and attention. Will was lithe, compact, potential coiled in the expanse of his firm chest and tapered waist. His arms were toned, sturdy thighs and legs looking like they could crush someone down with ease. Will had all the physical grace of a hunter if only he allowed himself to be, not imprisoned within the borders of his mind where Jack and the rest of a moralistic society would prefer him leashed, restrained. Will should be out in the open and leaving crimson in his wake. 

Thriving. Alive.

"Hannibal," Will whispered his name, voice low and rough, unrepentant in the way he tracked Hannibal's eyes, before traversing the contours of his face like Will was imprinting him to memory.

Will stood a little too close, directly in his personal space, clad in nothing but a pair of teal-blue boxer briefs that brought out the color of his eyes. Eyes that appeared to be dazed, like a part of Will's consciousness was somewhere far away. His lips were a dark shade of red, as if he'd bitten them raw, cheeks a fetching flushed pink. There was something relaxed in Will's stance. Sated. Loose-limbed. Hannibal's nostrils flared, smelling subpar shampoo and even more subpar soap on clean skin, and underneath it all the unmistakable lingering scent of semen.

They had conversed at length about Miss Boyle and Will had surprised him by openly admiring the Copycat's gift. When Will had gone through a brief panic attack, he clung to Hannibal, sought comfort, and saturated himself with Hannibal's scent. To think that Will had been aroused, and touched himself in the shower after the things they shared, knowing full well that Hannibal was still in the room —

Never once in Hannibal's adult life had his self-control failed him so spectacularly.

He tightly gripped Will's hips as if the choice to do otherwise was nonexistent. There was a second's worth of self-chastisement, but then Will was gasping as soon as Hannibal's fingers curled and held on. Will's right hand shot out to clutch Hannibal's left shoulder and he allowed it, just like he allowed the cheek pressing against his heart.

They stood in the middle of the room, at the precipice of something that Hannibal felt like he should know but didn't.

The surge of desire that crawled up Hannibal's spine was doused in the next instant when he heard Will's rasping, mournful cry. He sounded like Hannibal's touch burned, flayed him from the inside out, yet he couldn't bear to separate himself from him. Will squeezed him tighter, a stream of _'I'm sorrys'_ , and _'I didn't know'_ , spilling past quivering lips, even as he guided Hannibal's right hand to wrap around his waist, thumb caressing Hannibal's forearm in an up-and-down hypnotic motion. 

However, before Hannibal could fully appreciate Will's show of trust and vulnerability, his caresses stilled, thumb moving erratically on the smooth skin as if searching for something that wasn't there. Will ripped himself away from their embrace in a heartbeat, cheeks blotchy, eyes red-rimmed. Hannibal took one step forward and tried to offer words of comfort, but Will shut down any attempt with a fervent shake of his head. He apologized for his behavior as the distance between them grew. Will wiped his face, berating himself for being _'stupid'_ as he kept repeating _'not him'_ under his breath. Hannibal wondered who this 'him' was that Will seemed so broken up about, unpleasant jealousy coiling at the pit of his stomach at the thought of another man in Will's life.

Hannibal filed the information at the back of his mind to revisit at a later time. Meanwhile, he simply got out of Will's way and watched him wordlessly as he hastily and angrily went about changing into his work clothes. 

Will didn't open his mouth on the drive to the construction site, unless necessary. He stewed in silence, resentment evident in his gaze. It made Hannibal wonder if his existence upset Will somehow. He instantly dismissed the thought as such looks of animosity were interspersed with moments where Will simply stared, intense longing pervading blue eyes.

Hannibal was not used to bewilderment. It was most frustrating, that feeling of always being one step behind. Will's actions and words perplexed him. Just when he thought he understood the reasoning behind Will's rumination and motivations, he found himself adrift, reframing what he'd seen and heard, all because Will had done or said something that did not fit his working theory.

What a turbulent, unpredictable man.

  


* * *

  


The lone peculiarity of a resignation letter containing a phone number but no address was all Will needed to single out a man named Garrett Jacob Hobbs. It was but the first construction site they visited and already, Will had expertly sniffed out a possible suspect.

Will's keen intuition should worry Hannibal. The way he could so easily make rapid-fire connections with the information presented to him was dangerous and had the potential to one day become Hannibal's undoing. And yet, all he felt as Will asked for Hobbs's address from the attendant was a surge of pride for the profiler's preternatural perceptiveness.

"Would you say the chances are high for this Hobbs fellow to be our Shrike, Will?" 

Will had no immediate response, eyebrows scrunched in thought, and Hannibal took the opportunity to glance and memorize the phone number left on the resignation letter.

The woman walked towards the other end of the trailer, grumbling, presumably to search for the address Will asked her to find. Hannibal noticed Will side-eye her, and upon learning that she was a good distance away, leaned back against the filing cabinet, hips slanted forward as he faced Hannibal. 

Will's head tilted to the side, the line of his neck on display, sanguine eyes latching onto a jumping pulse point as Will popped tight joints before releasing a small sigh. Gaze shifting upward, Hannibal found Will's dark blues trained on him, affectionate smile playing on pale-pink lips.

Such a weighted look brought forth vivid memories of what transpired earlier that morning. It was a jarring reminder of how the inscrutable profiler had proven himself to be a living and breathing conundrum of enmity and seduction designed to mystify Hannibal.

Will was cold fire and loving hate. The calm before the storm and the raging tempest itself. He'd been a winter of discontent since the motel, and now, Will's mood had fluctuated again. He was no longer freezing rain but summer skies, body language carefree, thighs open, and tempting Hannibal to touch.

"I'm not making any assessment until I meet Hobbs myself," Will said. "And if he isn't the Shrike, we still have four other sites to visit."

Hannibal hummed his assent and stepped into the vee of Will's spread thighs, gratified to see his bandaged hand twitch, his arm making a motion of reaching out that Will forcibly held back. Hannibal had no such qualms. He laid out his hand and waited for Will to bridge the gap. Will did so, tentatively at first, then held Hannibal firmly with increasing confidence.

Will exhaled, shoulders sagging as Hannibal slotted their fingers together; the tension he'd been carrying since their abruptly severed embrace rolling off of him in waves. Hannibal pulled Will to full height, steadying him as the profiler collided gently against his chest. With gazes set on each other, the space between them narrowed with each intake of air.

Hannibal wanted to possess, inexorably drawn as he was to the resplendent man. He pictured himself cradling Will's face to watch him close those intelligent eyes, lower down all of his forts and completely let Hannibal in. He would gladly help free Will from everything causing him such unrest. If only Will asked it of him.

"Umm," a voice interrupted, followed directly by an exaggerated throat clearing. "Did you two still need the address for Mr. Hobbs or…?" 

Hannibal turned to see the attendant holding a few boxes stacked on top of each other. His eyes narrowed. Displeased. However, she was within her right to interrupt them, seeing as they were strangers and it was her workplace. Hannibal let go of Will's hand, maroon gaze entreating the profiler that whatever was happening between them had to be addressed sooner rather than later. Will tried to avoid his eyes, but Hannibal was steadfast until Will capitulated and gave him a reluctant nod. 

Hannibal straightened his spine, just as Will ambled towards the employee. "Yes, we still need that. Thank you," he said, tone churlish and ornery. Forts firmly back in place.

The possibility that only Hannibal was allowed to see glimpses of the real Will Graham behind the person suit he presented to society was most delightful. It stood to reason that Will found no problem discovering Hannibal's own person suit, when he had one that may as well be just as carefully crafted, if not more.

"Is this all of it?" Will asked, making sure.

"Yes. I double-checked the years in accordance to when the Plumbers Union employed him." A loaded pause. "Along with hundred others."

According to the attendant, Garrett Jacob Hobbs's address was supposed to be found within the disorganized depths of the boxes. Scowling, Will informed her about cooperating with the FBI and that they will hold onto the papers until further notice.

"You peruse through the forms and find me Hobbs's address while I drive, Hannibal," Will instructed, his tone a touch warmer than when he addressed the woman. Hannibal smiled. 

He was back to being Hannibal and not Dr. Lecter. Splendid. "Of course, Will."

As they transferred the boxes to their rental car, Garrett Jacob Hobbs’s phone number niggled at Hannibal. It wasn't every day that one found a killer with the same proclivities. Still, even as a fellow cannibal, he had no care for Hobbs's psychosis. The similarities ended there. Hobbs might also not be the Shrike and his meddling would simply go to waste. However, if Hobbs was the killer Will had been searching for, as his friend, it was Hannibal's responsibility to ensure the Minnesota Shrike was caught. 

Dead and preferably by Will's own hands. 

Hannibal imagined that killing Hobbs would quench the darkness straining inside Will. Though it might only be for a moment, he was certain Will would delight bathing in his prey's blood. It would be enough. For the time being.

What a glorious sight Will would make.

"I got it!" Will called out, rushing to help pick up the papers dropped on the ground. He rolled his eyes at Hannibal. "Clumsy. Clumsy."

Hannibal matched his teasing grin, hands held up in mock surrender. "Guilty as charged," then, "I will retrieve the last box." Will waved him off with a nod and resumed his task.

With tissue paper on the phone handle and dialing the numbers from memory using a knuckle to avoid leaving incriminating fingerprints, Hannibal made the call. The girl that answered was young, likely a teenager; the cadence of her voice familiar, like he'd heard it somewhere before.

_Dad, it's for you._

_Who is it?_

_Caller ID said it was blocked._

The probability of Garrett Jacob Hobbs being the Minnesota Shrike exponentially increased. Hannibal waited for the man to speak. 

_"Hello?"_

"Garett Jacob Hobbs? You don't know me and I suspect we'll never meet. This is a courtesy call. Listen very carefully," Hannibal stated in a rush, fabricating a sense of urgency for a fellow killer. There was a single shaky exhale and then nothing. It would seem Mr. Hobbs waited with bated breath. "Are you listening?"

_"Yes."_

It was not hard to imagine Garrett Jacob Hobbs paralyzed on the spot, the realization that his crimes were finally paying him a visit shaking him to his core. His breath quickened until all Hannibal heard was the harsh, staccato rhythm of his debilitating fear. Garrett Jacob Hobbs fancied considering himself a predator when all he truly was, was cornered prey.

"They know."

Satisfied, Hannibal put down the receiver and turned, only to find Will stood halfway inside the trailer, body angled by the door, neck twisted just enough for an unobstructed view of where Hannibal was. Will's arms were crossed, eyes assessing, almost annoyed.

"Will," Hannibal greeted, discreetly crumpling the hidden tissue paper in his grasp.

The lack of accusation didn't stop the spike of apprehension churning in Hannibal's gut at the possibility of getting caught like some neophyte. He wanted to ask how long Will had been standing there, or figure out the extent of what he heard, but didn't dare give himself away, any more than he already had. Still, a part of Hannibal basked in the art of waiting, curious as to what Will would do.

"You called Garrett Jacob Hobbs?" Will asked, but it didn't sound like a question. With pursed lips, Will glanced up at the trailer's ceiling, the off-white peeling paint deepening his frown.

"I was merely ascertaining if Mr. Hobbs was home for an interview." Will's chuff of laughter sounded insulting and charming at the same time. Hannibal deliberated, mere two seconds before he adopted the tone of a man who realized that he made an honest, horrible mistake. "Shouldn't I have done that, Will?"

"Making that call could have just tipped off a serial killer, Hannibal," Will said, then drawled in no uncertain terms: "Don't do anything again without my permission." Hannibal nodded, feeling like Will was talking about something else entirely unrelated to the phone call he made. "Get in the car and please find me that address in the next five minutes."

  


* * *

  


Hannibal found the address within the given time, and the drive to Hobbs's residence was spent in relative silence. Will's knuckles were tight on the steering wheel as he navigated the road. There was a tick to his jaw, eyebrows furrowed, deeply akin to a student struggling to remember the dates to a History test.

"What's on your mind, Will?" Hannibal was not under the delusion that Will truly did not overhear his words. Why he continued to pretend otherwise, Hannibal could only take a guess. But he would prefer to think that Will simply trusted him enough not to go running to Jack at the first opportunity. "Are you upset with the actions I've taken?" 

"I'm not upset, Hannibal. Not at you at least," Will replied as the light turned red and the car slowed to a stop. "You didn't know the protocol. I should have briefed you first." It seemed Will had every intention to continue his pretense pertaining to Hannibal's innocence.

Hannibal would be happy to oblige.

"You are worried for Garrett Jacob Hobbs's daughter," he pointed out instead, the view of Will's eyes fixed on him making it easier to discern what could be rattling inside his head. "You think he might do something rash."

"I don't _think_ ," Will said as he adjusted his glasses. His fingers tapped restlessly on the steering wheel, red dotting through the bandage, ignored. "I _know_ he's going to do something rash. Killers like him usually do."

"Killers like him?"

"Impulsive," Will spit out. "Careless." There was venom in that tone. A personal slight.

"You sound certain that he is the Minnesota Shrike, Will," Hannibal stated his observation, not at all missing the way Will's shoulders tensed a fraction.

_Interesting_.

"I don't," Will denied swiftly. "But if he is, the Minnesota Shrike loves his daughter too much to let her go. Garret Jacob Hobbs would have been rattled by the call you made. He knows the authorities are onto him. He would kill her, then kill himself immediately after."

"A murder-suicide then. Garrett Jacob Hobbs could not live without his daughter, and he could not bear the thought of her living her life without him," Hannibal declared. "He would take the role of the judge and executioner."

Will fell silent, and Hannibal wondered what it was he said that put such a haunted look on Will's face. The brooding man shook his head, and the sad glint in his eyes vanished.

He let out a heavy sigh. "Can I trust you won't tell Jack anything about what I'm about to say?"

"Is it about the case?" Hannibal queried. Will nodded. "You don't think Jack deserves to know?"

"No. I know how he gets." Will watched the people crossing the road for a moment, then continued: "Jack looks at the world in black and white. He won't care. It's always a killer and a victim for him. No in between."

"I understand. You have my word," Hannibal assured, always open for ways to endear Will to him. "And haven't I told you? Anything you tell me in confidence stays between us." 

Will regarded him fondly. Hannibal wanted to immortalize the smile Will granted him for his cooperation. "Doctor-patient confidentiality?"

Maybe in another life, Hannibal would find Will Graham unwittingly put under his thumb as his patient alluring, and manipulated him however he deemed fit. This was not such a life. Will had a monster growing inside of him. He was well aware of it and had no need to pretend to be normal. He already showed a great aptitude for darkness, relished in the brutal artistry of the Copycat's gift crafted for him. Will needed guidance, yes, and Hannibal would delight whispering through the chrysalis of Will's becoming, but preferred to see Will's growth undiluted even by his own influence.

Hannibal licked his lips, pleased to see Will mirror the action, the attraction between them undeniable and begging to be explored. "You, my dear Will, are not my patient."

"Jack might have something to say about that. He already thinks I'm unstable." Disdain colored Will's words. "Compliments from Dr. Bloom."

"The lovely Alana Bloom?" Hannibal asked, interest piqued. Will suddenly eyed him like he would love to do nothing more than put a knife to his throat. Or hers. "You know of her?"

"We've met. Colleagues," Will replied, one shoulder lifting in a mimicry of a shrug. "Jack thinks our relationship is personal, so it makes it excusable to set me up with someone I don't know to work my psychological profile."

"Me," Hannibal supplied. 

"Yes. No offense, doctor. I know all the tricks in your field." The fondness dropped, replaced by derision. " _Therapy_ doesn't work on me."

Hannibal understood Will's scorn. Subtle little manipulations after all were the bread and butter of psychiatry, and was what sessions between a patient and their psychiatrist usually operated under. "I would not dare dream to try and manipulate you, Will."

Will's lip twitched, seeing right through Hannibal's audacity to lie to his face. "Sounds like something a manipulator would say." 

It would be futile to disagree with Will or try to sell himself as an ethical practitioner. Though Hannibal had no such designs to manipulate Will to serve his interests, he didn't fault the profiler for his caution. Will already knew about Hannibal's person suit, and had allowed him to see glimpses of the real Will Graham in return. Will accepted them as friends, on an even playing field, and a possibility for more as long as Hannibal didn't do anything that could cause Will to reject him altogether.

_"I'm not going to miss you. I'm not going to find you. I'm not going to look for you. I don't wanna know where you are or what you do. I don't want to think about you anymore."_

Hannibal clutched his chest, suppressing a groan when near unbearable pain hit him. His ears rang, while spots danced in his vision. He shook his head to try and clear it, wondering if he was having a heart attack.

"The daughter hunted with her father," Will drawled, tone flat and matter-of-factly. "She was the lure," he continued, oblivious to Hannibal's plight. "The other girls were all taken from the school or were followed home."

"The perfect bait," Hannibal filled in as he took a fortifying breath. The dreadful feeling passed. His head throbbed, but the pain was receding.

"Yes. She befriends the girls, gets them alone and dear daddy takes care of the rest."

Hannibal's thoughts raced, unable to recall what caused the sudden pain that threatened to overwhelm him. He glanced at Will and knew he could not appear unsettled, and so Hannibal endeavored to act as if nothing happened.

"She is a killer then," Hannibal said as he hurriedly composed himself. "A fledgling."

"No." Will snorted. "It's captor bonding. It's an old trick. You bond with your captor, you might just live. Or else, you're breakfast. In the Shrike's case. Literally. The daughter had to do what she thought was best for her survival."

"What upsets you in particular?"

"She's survived on her own just fine, until…" Will trailed off, gruff voice all too suddenly laden with guilt. "...we put her in a situation where she ended up dying anyway."

"She is alive, Will." Hannibal reached out and gently placed his hand atop the profiler's own; a show of solidarity. He understood Will's restlessness. He wanted to be there before Garrett Jacob Hobbs killed the child in a fit of panic. "You want to save her, protect her."

"I do," came the honest reply. Will Graham had gotten so close to the Shrike, it was as if he saw the young Hobbs girl as his own. "I want her alive and away from Jack's list of suspects."

"Feeling paternal, Will?"

"I don't know her, but it feels like I've lived a life with her," Will admitted, before looking down at their joined hands. He turned his palm up, fingers intertwining like puzzle pieces fitting together seamlessly. Calculating blue eyes bore into Hannibal's. A plan forming in them. "She hasn't been in control for some time. I'd like to give her some of her control back."

"And how do you suppose she does that?"

The car honking from behind interrupted their conversation too soon. Will silently cursed and had to reluctantly let go of Hannibal's hand to put the car into gear. The light had turned green. Hannibal's question was left unanswered yet again as Will revved up the engine and set his full focus back on the road.

  


* * *

Hannibal only intended to rest his eyes for a minute at most, give the pulsating ache in his head time to settle, and open them again.

"Wake up. We're here, Hannibal."

It would seem he fell asleep. The flashes of light accompanied by murky words and voices from earlier had somehow depleted his energy. Hannibal felt a casual weight on his shoulder, fingers stroking his hair before he caught sight of its owner, hovering over him. "Will?"

"Hey." The fingers on his hair moved down his arm, the touch leaving pleasant tingling in its wake. Hannibal had always lived life on full alert. He was not one to easily succumb to slumber, the nightmares of his childhood and youth unconsciously training his body not to desire sleep like an average man. Nothing had ever let him lower his guard down before. And yet, there he was, peacefully sleeping in the presence of one FBI Special Agent Graham.

The sound of a scream chased away all dregs of drowsiness from Hannibal's system. He pulled himself upright in time to see the door of the house facing their parked car fling open, and a short-haired blonde woman was roughly pushed down the front porch steps. 

"Shit." Will was already out of the vehicle and rushing into the house, in pursuit of the man who could only be Garrett Jacob Hobbs, by the time Hannibal stepped out of the car.

"Get her," Will ordered, not at all stopping to check the fallen victim. He did not have his gun out as he disappeared through the door.

Hannibal jogged after him and checked the woman who was most likely the soon-to-be dearly departed Mrs. Hobbs. Her bloodied hands sprang up to grasp Hannibal, staining whatever she could reach, nothing but wet gurgling noises escaping her. The slice on her neck was expertly executed, severing several arteries and nerves. She could not be saved. Regardless, Hannibal tried to stop the blood flow, only because Will asked it of him. 

For appearances’ sake.

The life inevitably ebbed away from her body and she laid still, staring unseeingly up at the morning sky. Hannibal could hear commotion from within the house, grunts and pained yelps exchanged from a physical fight.

He inched through the door, walked through the short hallway and stepped into the kitchen. The young teenage girl, _'wind-chafed, auburn hair, plain but pretty'_ , was closest to Hannibal, her back facing him as she trembled in place, crying and begging her father to stop.

Unharmed. Will got to her on time.

Dark-brown eyes sought out Will and he found him on the floor, Garrett Jacob Hobbs trying to wrench the gun from his hold. Blood soaked through Will's sage-green button-down shirt. It appeared to be a shoulder injury. Hannibal felt a growl crawl up his throat, furious to see Will marked by someone else. The anger fizzled, however, when he saw the expression Will wore. His teeth were bared in a snarl, specks of blood splattered all over his face and neck. Will looked feral, rich red coating his hands, eyes bright with the excitement of a hunt.

The monster inside Hannibal _purred_.

Garrett Jacob Hobbs's right thigh and left arm bled profusely, courtesy of Will no doubt, but it did not look like the pain was registering to him. There was nothing but fear and panic in his eyes, focused as he was on the gun. Will's pained cry shot through Hannibal when Hobbs dug his fingers into Will's shoulder causing him to let go. Hobbs rose to his feet, the barrel of the gun instantly pointed at his daughter.

"Hannibal!"

Cerulean eyes widened like saucers, mouth gaping open in stunned silence. Hannibal felt the searing pain a second later, coursing through his right lower back and exiting through his abdomen. His legs gave out almost immediately, but he did not gracelessly fall as the girl tightly held onto him. She was in a state of shock, and adrenaline was giving her the momentary strength to take some of his weight. Hannibal leaned on her, and they both crumpled to the floor.

Hannibal laid on his back, propped up against the wall, appalled at his lapse in judgment. There was no need to take a bullet for the girl, but the desperation in Will's voice had Hannibal moving, shielding her before his survival instincts could fully kick in.

Will tackled Hobbs, away from where Hannibal was clinically assessing his injury. The girl took off her thin beige blazer and used it to apply pressure on Hannibal's gunshot wound. The pain was steadily getting worse. Hannibal was certain the bullet hit an organ. A kidney perhaps. It's been a long while since he'd experienced anything life-threatening. 

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry," the girl kept apologizing. She was shaking like a leaf, whimpering and choking on her tears. Hannibal steadied her with a bloodied hand on her arm, and asked for her name; something else for her to think about, so she did not spiral into full-blown hysteria. "Abigail. My name's Abigail."

The name was nowhere near similar-sounding, but she had him thinking of Mischa all the same.

"Apologizing would be of no help, Abigail. Your mother is dead. Your father killed her, and he would have killed you too," Hannibal remarked factually, one eye tracking the ongoing brawl between Hobbs and Will, remembering what he said about giving the girl her control back.

"I know. The— other guy grabbed me from dad. The knife missed me, but he got stabbed, and then you—" Abigail hiccuped, wide terrified blues several shades lighter than Will's filling with fresh tears. "Mom." Her face crumpled, for all of five seconds, before she wiped her sodden cheeks, a hard edge settling into her eyes. "I'm tired of being scared."

"You have to get rid of that fear, Abigail. Your father needs to be stopped." Hannibal sent her an encouraging smile and watched as the realization sunk in. With forced calm, she pressed Hannibal's hand over his injury to replace her own and hastily looked around, no doubt in search of a weapon.

Will's gun lay a few feet away.

There was no hesitation. She picked it up and aimed. Hannibal's gaze met Will's in the wake of her enraged, heartbroken sobs. Will pushed against Hobbs and swiftly removed himself from the line of fire. Seeing the clear shot, Abigail took it.

She emptied the gun on her father, her furious, wounded screams echoing through the kitchen walls. Garrett Jacob Hobbs slumped against the counter, eyes unseeing, more bullet holes than flesh in death.

Abigail Hobbs collapsed where she stood, the stress finally catching up to her and rendering her unconscious. Will was quick to break her fall, and he eased her down gently. His fingers moved over her throat, stark relief palpable in the exhale he let out, before Will left her prone form and rushed straight for Hannibal.

"I need an EMT at the Hobbs residence. I'll send the address," Will barked into his phone and pocketed the device. His hands shook, hovering over Hannibal's body like Will didn't know where to place them, before deciding on helping put more pressure over the hole on Hannibal's stomach. "You got shot."

"An astute observation, darling. You've been stabbed yourself," Hannibal said, voice coming out in stuttering gasps much to his growing annoyance. The sheer pain in his gut was making it hard to regulate his breathing. Will stared at him. It occurred to Hannibal too late that he'd called Will a term of endearment. Blood loss makes a person say strange things. 

"You didn't have to take a bullet for her," Will said accusingly. Hannibal didn't think it was possible to be reprimanded for saving a life.

"I did not."

"Why did you do it?"

"Saving Abigail seemed important to you," Hannibal replied honestly, vision blurring at the edges. His gaze traveled to Abigail's form, hating that his breathing had turned labored. "Tell me Will, did she take back control?" Hobbs's cooling body was testament enough to that. Though Hannibal's plans for Will to murder Hobbs did not come to pass, it worked out all the same. Seeing the fruits of Will's manipulations for the girl to kill her father was more than satisfying to witness, made all the more impressive by Hannibal unwittingly playing directly into Will's machinations.

"I'd say she took it back just fine," Will replied, sounding mildly amused before he leaned in and gripped the fine hairs on the back of Hannibal's head. Indignant blues fell shut as their foreheads touched. Will took several calming breaths, faces so close they shared the same air. The threat of losing consciousness did not stop Hannibal anticipating a kiss. "Don't do anything this reckless again. Don't you dare fucking die on me," Will gritted out in warning, eyes fluttering open, glassy with unshed tears. "Self-sacrifice doesn't suit you."

Hannibal always found the idea of death comforting. The thought that his life could end at any moment freed him to fully appreciate the beauty, the art, and the horror of everything the world had to offer. And if looking into the eyes of Will Graham was how he’d spend his last moments on earth, Hannibal would have no regrets. It was also nice to know that getting shot was not part of Will's design for him.

"Sleep," Will whispered against his mouth, and there was never more sublime incentive to continue clinging to the beauty of life than the sweet taste and soft press of Will's lips against his. "I'll be here when you wake up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would love to hear your thoughts. ❤️ Kudos and comments are always loved like how Hannibal loves Will and appreciated like fine wine.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what you guys think so far. Hannibal POV is so hard to write. 😭 I don't have his gift of spouting pretentious nonsense all over the place. Hopefully, you guys enjoyed your time reading. Comments and kudos are very much appreciated. ❤️
> 
> Come scream with me about Hannigram on Twitter. My handle is the same @madslilteacup 😶🦌♂️🕺


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